In Dreams Worlds Wait
by Skye12
Summary: An age has ended, another's begun when a young boy stumbles across the greatest tale of a lifetime and begins his journey to tell it. We already know the tale but his journey is a whole other story... waiting in his dreams.
1. A Legend Found

The world was at such peace in the forest as little John had never known it to be. Compared to living in the harsh dry climate of South Africa most of his life this place was so strange, new, and yet beautiful in a way that filled his heart and replenished his soul. The trees were like tall grey pillars reaching up to embrace the sky, unfolding their golden leaves in a blanket protecting the young seedlings from the harsh sun. John's feet shuffled through the carpet of leaves and the smell of life filled the air like a new spring of a new age. John hopped onto a stone from being knee deep in leaves and looked out on the ocean of foliage open up before him. He dug his hands deep into the fertile mulch and pushed it away from the ground revealing the blackest top soil he'd ever seen. It was so fresh and pulsing with life as he felt it embrace and tingle his tiny fingers. There sprouted a tiny green shoot, so young, and small, and vulnerable. Thus was the beginning of the new age. He felt it all around him, something was bursting to life. But also something was dying and John tore his hands out of the soil.  
  
The trees sang a lament for a lost age as their leaves rustled in the murmuring wind. John closed his eyes and pictured these woods as they were thousands of years before. He saw them as flat land with no trees growing by the fate of the earth but he saw little people going to and fro the murdered planes that once held tall strong trees, wide and old. But they were destroyed by a dark will and an evil power. He saw the dead and burnt remains of the first born trees that were planted there in the making of the world. These little people were a strange and curious race. But John felt their love for the earth as if it radiated out of their small bodies, right from the heart. They bent under the harsh sun and plowed, toiled, and planted. John stood, lost in the dream world, but he felt like a ghost in the real world. He walked from person to person who took no notice to his presence. Then John heard a voice and spun around to see two of the men talking but unaware of his presence.  
  
"Sam, what have you got there?"  
  
John's eyes fell on the other man. He looked up, big mournful eyes fell on him yet saw through him. "I've got to do this myself, if you get my meanin`. This little box may be the thing to save the Shire."  
  
"You better get started then."  
  
The one called Sam let out a long sigh, "We've got a lot of work ahead of us."  
  
John walked forward until he was standing straight in front of "Sam" and staring into his eyes. He then looked down to see what Sam's brown hands cradled so lovingly. It was a small box, the lid was open and inside was some soft grey silt. Fine as silk and yet it held a great power. John's eyes sparkled in amazement.  
  
These people were a small folk, John observed. The eldest of them were just about his height and being six years in age himself, even John knew that that was too small for grown men. John's eyes caught their furry feet and one thousand questions ran through his mind. So fast that reality soon took him and he was back in the tall forest.  
  
John blinked and the sun hurt his eyes. He stepped into the shade of one of the tall trees. He leaned heavily on it, remembering seeing it planted in his dream. But was this a dream? John wasn't sure and he traveled on through the forest.  
  
How had he gotten there? It was indeed strange that he should just happen to come upon this tranquil place from whence he came. John stopped in his tracks, where was he going? He pried at his memory. He could remember returning to his home, leaving his father in South Africa and going back home with his mama and little brother. He could remember his warm bed and-  
  
The woods suddenly ended. John stumbled out, dazed and confused as he looked out on the dead landscape before him. What had become of this land? The world was dead but he saw it alive, the dream was so real, he could still see the deep brown eyes of Sam looking out on the destruction and resigning to his duties. He had planted a forest! One so little had done all that. John thought of this Sam fellow with great reverence. But now what had become of Sam and all of his people. John swallowed around a lump in his throat and trudged on.  
  
Now before him rolled hills and planes that had been abandoned by all life thousands of years ago. The sky was grey and the sun burned down white and still giving no color to the dead grass and withered plants. John's feet found a road and he began his journey. He heard a song on the wind once sang with joy now sounded mournful.  
  
Still round the corner there may wait  
  
A new road or a secret gate  
  
And though I oft have passed them by  
  
A day may come at last when I  
  
Shall take the hidden paths that run  
  
West of the moon East of the sun  
  
John felt his little heart quiver but with fear or simple curious excitement his innocent mind could not tell. The road was just dust under his feet yet he could picture the pony driven carts pulling fresh vegetables and fruits just plucked from the fields. There was a mill and the party tree in the center of a great large field often used for celebrations and festivals of the jovial little people. John felt a smile tug at his lips but also a tear trickle down his cheek. They were gone. Long ago, they had gone, for their age was over. John sat on a stone and cried.  
  
He felt he had been there for ages, the images burning in his mind. Suddenly a hand was upon his shoulder and John winced. He looked at the hand and to his surprise he only saw four fingers. John looked up, his eyes wide with fear.  
  
Looking down at him was the kind face and strange blue eyes of yet another little man. John caught his words in his mouth. He had been seen! But how? John was stammering over his first sentence as the other man sat down and laughed at the young boy.  
  
They were the same height, John perhaps a little taller, but this man was much older, and wise, and very- mysterious. John could not help but feel afraid. "How- how do you do- sir?" John tried his very best to sound respectful.  
  
The man laughed, "How do you do, stranger?"  
  
John could spit out no more words. He found himself gaping at the man. Those blue eyes were staring out at the others as they went about their work, not quite noticing the pair sitting on the stone.  
  
It was the strange man that spoke first, "You are not from around here."  
  
"No, sir."  
  
"How did you get here?'  
  
"I don't know, sir."  
  
They were silent for a while longer. John braved to speak again, but being bold enough to ask all the questions that ran rampant in his mind was true madness. "Where is this?"  
  
"You are in the Shire."  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
The man looked at him, his eyes deep and his mind contemplating something he would not let to be known. "I have a favor to ask of you."  
  
"What sir?"  
  
"Will you tell our story? Don't let them ever forget? Even after my people are gone."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"You'll understand in time." With that the strange man stood and went off briskly. He was just a figure in the distance when he turned his head, his attention caught by another. And there John saw Sam, working deep in the soil. Sam stood and nodded his head as the strange man spoke to him. John could barely catch their movements but when the man had finished he turned and went back up the hill, disappearing into the distance. Sam stared after him a moment, scratched his head, then went back to work.  
  
John stood abruptly almost knocking into one of the passing carts that, of course, could not see him. He spun around and fell on his behind as the cart passed swiftly. When John turned around he was back in dark reality. The small people were gone, Sam was no longer toiling in the soil and where he sat great tall trees now occupied. The strange man vanished. John stood and rubbed his eyes yet the visions no longer returned.  
  
The road stretched out under his feet as he trudged on. He came to a sign that now lay burried in the dust. He stepped on the brittle, old wood with a crunch and lifted both pieces. He put them together and blew away the dust. In neat block letters it read, Bagshot Row.  
  
John sighed and looked up. He had traveled on a while until his feet demanded rest once more. The hills rolled before him but there was nothing to break the monotony. He stopped and leaned against the hill, but he felt something other than the dead grass and loose dirt. He felt wood. He turned and pushed away the overgrown weeds and dead vines. He dug his fingers into the sharp and brittle stems and tore them away. There revealed a door. A round door. On it the number three was plainly written. He put his hand to the knob in the center of the door and tried to pull it open resulting in him falling back and the door with him. It cracked and broke on top of him and he scrambled to his feet.  
  
John felt a pang of guilt at destroying the door but when he looked inside he could see what once were small rooms but he could make nothing of them now. This was a home, thousands of years ago. But now it was destroyed and mostly caved in. There were fallen pillars that held the house together and dirt filled the rooms. The floor boards were water logged and bent, cracking and broken. He saw on the floor something that was abandoned by the fleeing people. A trowel. This was a family of farmers.  
  
John picked up the trowel and ran his fingers along it. Bored with it he tossed it to the ground and stepped away from the destroyed home. These were a people that lived in the hills. John's eyes sought where the road led and his feet complied. Weary and now covered in dust he continued. Something pressed the young boy forward and the visions were so real.  
  
When he reached the top of the hill John was met by a broken gate. He put a hand on the gate and gingerly squeaked it open. This was too much effort for the age old hinges and they gave way. The gate fell to the ground with a clatter, John squeezed his eyes shut, cursing the noise. He stepped forward, every step was slow and gentle. Around him were once the finest gardens of all the land. And once again his visions returned, he saw Sam bent over them toiling with such love. Touching every flower so gently with such care. His face lit up as he did the work he so loved. Everything came alive again. The flowers bloomed and the leaves spread out to take in the sun. Under Sam's hand the flowers bloomed and blossomed, strong and proud. The air was filled with the sweet sent of spring and the sun lit up pouring its golden light throughout the garden. John opened his eyes. He found himself standing on the steps leading to yet another round door. The flowers withered and the stems shrivelled. The leaves turned black and then to dust. The roots pulled up and crumpled and Sam disappeared, his happy humming lingered with the fresh floral scent in the air. Two clean trails of tears were the only white stripes left on John's dust covered face. He cried for the people that were no more.  
  
He put a hand on the doorknob but was hesitant. Slowly, very slowly, he turned it and the door opened with a slight squeak. He only opened it a crack and slipped in so that he would disturb very little. Nothing had collapsed in this home. John looked up and the ceiling was only half an inch above his head. He looked about but very little was left in the home. There were walls and the ceiling and the floorboards. Not even furniture was left. These people left this land long before it was destroyed. John sighed, at least they were not here when it was, but what drove them to leave? John wiped some tears with his filthy sleeve and continued through the rooms. There were precious glass cupboards, most were shattered long ago and the doors hung off the hinges. John ran his hand along the intricately carved pillars collecting the grey dust and ash then sending it floating back to the ground. His eyes took in all he saw and he stored it safely in his memory.  
  
There was one room that had something left in it. John tried his hardest to restrain himself from dashing towards it. He saw small chest in the corner covered in thick grey dust. John lay his hands on the top leaving his distinct prints in the ash. He felt for the lock and when his fingers came upon it he gave it a light tug and it snapped off along with a plank of wood. John set it aside and curled his fingers under the wood. He lifted the trunk and a swarm of white moths filled the air. John let out a little cry and swatted them away falling to his behind again. The house creaked and moaned with the sudden disturbance and John caught his breath.  
  
He peered in the trunk and found a small book. He took it ever so gingerly age worn papers stuck out here and there. The cover was so torn that the color it once had been was undistinguished. John guessed from the odd brown it had turned it was once red or green perhaps. He lifted the cover and looked over the writing briskly. It was strange and still barely able to read he could not decode the script. It was written in a thin wandering hand the spidery script filling hundreds of pages. John flipped gently finding to his dismay that many were torn or ruined with age. As he went on the script changed to a more legible, bold script. His eyes took in all that he could. He noticed Sam's name popped up a good many times.  
  
His eyes flitted over the first page. He read with some struggle. Concerning Hobbits. Hobbits? What are Hobbits? John tried to make out what was written but came to the only conclusion he could. Hobbits were the little people he had seen in the visions. John quickly flipped to the end and found many notes. He read over the last page carefully.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* I am getting older now. And the tale has finally drawn to a close. What more is there to say. I cannot possibly portray all that Mr. Frodo had meant for me to do. But I hope I have done what was asked of me and that my business here is done. I will be leaving for the havens in the morn and this will be given to Elanor. Strider will copy it and hopefully Mr. Frodo's last wishes will be fulfilled. They will know of the great danger and come to love their land all the more. But I want this copy to be kept and held onto. There was something else that Mr. Frodo asked of me which I never understood. He wanted me to take this copy and put it in a trunk and keep it there forever more. But even though I do not understand, there are a lot of things in this world that I do not, I will do as Mr. Frodo asked. Frodo-lad will keep it. I suppose he is the Mr. Frodo of Bag-End now. It is funny how such things come to be. I cannot help but wonder why Mr. Frodo had asked that of me that day as I worked in the fields. He was acting awfully strange that day. I often saw him sitting alone, unnoticed, talking to himself. Now I will meet you again, sir, I suppose. What will become of our little tale now? What did you mean for it anyway, sir? Do you suppose someone will find it? I shall have Frodo-lad lock this away in the study and it shall remain there ever and anon. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
John sniffled. Whoever the writer was the words were filled with such a sad uncertainty of things to come. John ran his fingers along the book. Something told him all the answers to the thousands of questions that ran through his mind could be answered with that book. John hesitated, perhaps it was wrong, to go against "Mr. Frodo's" wishes and take the book away. He closed his eyes and heard words echo in the back of his mind.  
  
"Will you tell our story? Don't let them ever forget? Even after my people are gone."  
  
John quickly shoved the book under his arm and began walking out of the house. The world outside was so dark. It felt like it was falling away. He pictured Sam and the strange man and then a voice reached his ears.  
  
"John!"  
  
The world began falling away and John gripped the book tightly.  
  
"John! John Ronald Reuel Tolkien! You get down here! It's time for school!"  
  
John cringed at the use of his full name and opened his eyes to find the plain off-white ceiling of his England home meet his clouded vision. He gripped he covers around him and groaned. Then memories of his dream hit him like a strong wave. He hopped out of bed, startled as he was and began pulling on his socks for school. He reached over the foot of his bed and grabbed his breeches when his eyes fell upon a piece of very old paper. He pulled away his covers and there sitting contently on his bed was a very old book, stained and battered, beaten and age worn. He lifted it up, eyes wide with fear and opened to the first page. Concerning Hobbits. John caught his breath again and the world reeled around him. Was it a dream?  
  
"John! If you don't get down here now you won't get any breakfast!"  
  
John hid the precious book in his coat and raced down the stairs. "Coming Mama!" 


	2. Sharing Sorrows

Author's Note: All of the events in J.R.R. Tolkien's life that are mentioned in this fic ARE true. (save that fact that he had these dreams but who knows ::wink::)  
  
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! For the wonderful reviews. I really appreciate them and I'm so glad you like this fic. Just to let you know there is more to come. And all reviews are greatly appreciated and taken to heart! Thank you! ~Skye~  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
John woke with a start. He looked about and saw he had returned to the green woods outside of the Shire. He sighed and stood dusting off the leaves and pollen that accumulated on his nightshirt. He looked around bitterly, it was seven years after his first dream and he had become oddly comfortable with this world he could so easily escape to. He met the strange man many times and they formed a peculiar bond between two sufferers of life's injustices. John never knew enough about this strange world and his friend (who seemed to be the only person to see him) proved a terrible guide. They both seemed confused and lost never quite belonging. This was the only reason John could find that they were able to converse. Otherwise John was just a ghost, an intruder in a world never quite his to truly enjoy. His friend as well did not seem to belong, he was out of place and wounded. He carried a darkness with him and a horrifying past that John regrettably could recall as if the memories were his own. They shared a misery none could ever understand but each other, so it was hardly a friendship, but they found good company with another tortured soul. He shared memories with more than just this one person and they stirred such emotions in John that he never quite understood. But now John had gotten bitter and jaded, his life taking a turn for the worst. He scowled at the trees and sunlight around him as if cursing them. He spat bitterly and kicked at a tree only succeeding in sending pain shoot through his foot. He hopped around cursing and yelling.  
  
"Hey! Ho, there!"  
  
John spun around and saw the source of the voice sitting silently at the base of a tree. He set down a red book he had been writing in and stood up. "You are awfully loud this morning."  
  
"What do you want from me, Frodo!" John cried sitting down hard and crossing his arms.  
  
"You know," Frodo said quietly. "Now stop this nonsense." He sat back down and picked up his pen again and began writing as if John was not even there.  
  
"Nonsense!" John cried, "I don't understand any of this! I was just thrown into this without a say or anything! Why have I been dealt this burden?"  
  
Frodo raised an eyebrow, "I can understand such feelings."  
  
John lowered his voice, "Why must I be the one to tell your story?"  
  
Frodo shrugged, "You suit well." He looked up, a breeze ruffled his curls. "After all how else will it be told?"  
  
"Can the king not make copies?"  
  
"How long do you think it shall live. Perhaps copies will be made and they will be sent to the great halls where all of the history of Middle-Earth is written. But do you not think that those will one day die with the rest of Middle-Earth?"  
  
"How do you know this?"  
  
"I see many things I wish I did not. I just want my tale to be told so that they may know that their lands were threatened with such a danger and that they may come to love and appreciate them all the more. Many have made great sacrifices so that they may keep this, not just I."  
  
"You cannot possibly understand how terrible the other reality is. I cannot do this alone. Not now." John looked off in the distance recalling terrible memories.  
  
"I do not know what happens in your waking world."  
  
"Nor do you care!"  
  
Frodo frowned and wrote furiously, "I ask little of you."  
  
"You ask the world of me! I cannot even read your precious book! How do you expect me to do this?"  
  
"You do not understand our language?"  
  
"Hardly. It's the same but also- different. I don't know how to put it. The language- I just don't know it."  
  
"Then you will learn."  
  
"Learn languages? How?"  
  
"Find a way."  
  
The pair were silent once more. The spring was warm in the young forest. Everything grew so quickly since last year though it had been many years to John. He buried his face in his knees. He did not want this. It was such a peaceful place, so wonderful to run away to, and yet it seemed as if it mocked him. A place that would never be truly his. He wanted to stay and never return. But his brother needed him. He looked about at the young trees, they seemed to pity him and he scowled.  
  
"What a foul mood you are in," Frodo grumbled as he wrote.  
  
The boy pulled his knees up to his chin. "Do you know what it's like? Do you know or care at all! My father is dead! My mother is dead! And all I've got is this terrible duty you have so generously bestowed upon me!"  
  
Frodo's face flushed, the tips of his ears turned red, and he dropped his pen. "What did you say?" Frodo squeaked.  
  
"They're dead. And I've got to take care of my little brother." John whispered his voice cracking with emotion.  
  
Frodo looked on in horror. No one deserved such a fate, he knew. It was terrible to bear and sometimes it would take you in a wave of grief and drive you straight into despair. The loss of parents at such a young age and to feel completely abandoned in the cold world. No one to care or protect you. Forever wondering if it was your fault, if you were not a good enough child that they should never want you and leave so. Frodo felt tears prick and burn his eyes as he thought of his own parents.  
  
"It just so happens, John dear, that I do know."  
  
John looked up from his previous stance of burying his face in his knees. "You had Bilbo to go to. We have nowhere. We are just hopping from one home to another. Nobody wants us, my brother and I."  
  
There was a long pause. Both, boy and hobbit, were contemplating their next words carefully, both were deeply hurt and they had so much to share. "Do you miss Bilbo?" John finally croaked out through his tears.  
  
"I have a feeling I'll be seeing him again in good time." Frodo sighed setting down the book. "It's almost finished. I'm giving it to Sam."  
  
"I know," said John quietly.  
  
The boy looked down at his feet. The hobbit staring at the boy his deep eyes filling with pain and tears. He was so young to lose them. He himself was around the same age when he lost his own parents. And oh how abandoned and lost he felt. Lost in a world so cold and cruel. But it was true. He did have Bilbo. Someone to love him and care for him. Take him in, even though most of his childhood was spent in that horrifying despair, that doubt in yourself, if you've done anything wrong to make them leave you. And Frodo had no younger siblings to take care of. John was granted this terrible burden and he must bear it alone for Frodo knew he could never visit that world as John visited his.  
  
Frodo looked at the boy and saw him as he was. Lost and confused, envying and hating all other's happiness. Just wanting someone to hold you and whisper comfortingly in your ear, "It will be ok. It's not your fault." John had no one. A small cry welled up in Frodo's chest but he did not let it out. The boy did not seem to notice Frodo staring at him. His eyes were far away and distant and he seemed small curled up, afraid and alone. Frodo wanted more than anything to hold him and comfort him as he would his own son. But this he could not do. He had not the light in him any longer to comfort a fellow ailing soul. He himself was broken and tormented inside. John finally spoke breaking Frodo's line of thought.  
  
"Why do you keep bringing me here? In different times? It's all so confusing."  
  
Frodo looked up anxiously. John met his confused gaze. "I've never brought you here?"  
  
"Then how am I getting here?"  
  
Frodo shrugged uneasily, "I do not know. Some things are out of my hands. But the first time I saw you was that morning when Sam had first organized the planting parties," Frodo lied, "to go about and restore our beloved Shire. You looked so lost and confused I had to talk to you. No one was taking notice to you, I know how that feels. And you looked so- familiar. It's hardly been a year since then."  
  
"Not for me," said John, "It's been many years. And sometimes I see your memories, Frodo, and Sam's too and so many others whom I cannot name. And sometimes- sometimes I see what will become of the Shire after all the Hobbits have left it. It's so terrible. Why did they leave?"  
  
Frodo sighed, "Our age will soon come to an end. The world will ready itself for a new age. The age of men. We will all diminish in time. But that is long after Sam and his children and even his children's children. I worry not for the Shire any longer."  
  
"You do not plan to stay?"  
  
Frodo looked away, "I am leaving with the elves."  
  
John resolved that he would read his red book more often. He knew so little of the one he had made such a great promise to. And he intended to keep this promise. When he looked at Frodo he saw a very peculiar creature. He was so curious and frightened by Hobbits at the same time it only confused him. But this one was indeed extraordinary. When he looked into Frodo's eyes he saw pain and anguish, he had carried a terrible burden, that John knew. It scarred him, and it bound itself to him. He will forever carry it, to the end of his days. And now he sought healing with the elves. And would Sam go as well? John already knew a good deal about Sam. John went through it in his head. Sam was a courageous, loyal fellow. He had a good heart and simple longings. He loved to garden, his heart lay in the earth so to speak. But he loved his master too, more than anything. He loved him and looked at him with great reverence that even Frodo did not seem to see. John saw that same sparkle in Sam's eyes when he looked upon his master that he saw in his little brother's eyes when he looked up at him.  
  
John only knew a portion of what Frodo had gone through. All the agony the torment and he understood. He knew Frodo clung to life for Sam for the Shire for all the ones he loved that he knew could not bear losing him. If it wasn't for them Frodo would have let go long ago. John thought about this and as he did he thought about his brother. He couldn't stay in Middle- Earth even if it were possible. How much he loved the escape from the harsh coldness of reality his brother needed him.  
  
John looked up. "Frodo?"  
  
But Frodo had gone. The world was dark and desolate once more. The Hobbits were gone and the "age of men" as Frodo called it had taken over once more. John wept. He was alone again and how bleak the world felt. Was this better than reality? John stood and cried out.  
  
"Why are you doing this to me? Taking me here and throwing me there! What do you want from me? What!"  
  
John broke into a run. Maybe if he ran, ran as fast as he could, he could escape the power. That power that was driving him this way and that. He just wanted to be with Frodo, sitting in the woods. So Frodo was cold and he never laughed, and his eyes were dark and his words could bite. So what if he could never be a friend or a brother or a father. He was someone! Someone that understood how John felt. A fellow tormented soul and for that torment he was as he was.  
  
John ran for what seemed like days never reaching an end nor a beginning and falling ever farther from an answer that could never be reached. He felt times changing quickly as seasons. Finally he emerged once more into the Shire where he always inevitably ended up.  
  
"There is something that always brings me here," John whispered as he looked around.  
  
It was no longer the age of men for the Shire was bright and blooming. But it was night. A wondrous night as if there never was one. John looked up and saw the stars bursting in the sky, twinkling and shining with pure light that danced in his eyes. He'd never seen so many stars. The moon was a silver sliver hanging in the black velvet sky studded with the sparkling gems. John's eyes shone in sheer wonderment until there was a howl whistling sound and a burst of fire. John saw stars explode before him and he let out a cry and fell to his knees.  
  
When he regained use of his legs he stood shakily and looked about. There was music and lights coming from the field. John sprinted forward until he could hear the music so clearly. The light pipe of the lute filled the night accompanied by chattered laughing. John approached slowly. Even though he knew he could not be seen he forever felt like an intruder. There was another high shrill as something shot into the air. John gasped thinking with horror that this was the end of the merry little Hobbits that he had come to love and fear so much. They were a creature to be wondered at and though he thought them too strange and unfamiliar with his mind's reckoning to feel comfortable with, he loved them so.  
  
But his fears were put to the rest as he saw the wizard Gandalf, as Frodo called him, light another rocket and send it into the sky. Fireworks! It was Bilbo's birthday! John let out a squeak of excitement, forgetting his troubles for once, and ran forward to get a closer glimpse at the dancing and music and fireworks. He stopped dead when he saw a sight he thought he'd never see for he thought it could never exist. There was Frodo skipping on the stage with a lass on his arm. He spun around merrily then he spun her. His face lit up with pure merriment and joy and careless rapture that John thought was as impossible as seeing a tree walk (another thing he had gotten very wrong). Frodo's curls bounced and his eyes sparkled, he kicked his heals and spun once again before gripping hands with the lass and leading her under a bridge of arms that other dancing Hobbits had organized. Bells rang high and lifted their notes to fly through the night air. The lutes piped up and somewhere a trumpet tooted. Fiddles caught John's ear and sang their song entwined in that of the lutes and bells and trumpets. For a moment John was mesmerized by the music alone.  
  
John came back to his senses and he lost Frodo in the mass of dancers. Then his eye caught Sam sitting solemnly on his own. John's face saddened until he caught Frodo grip his friend by the shoulders, spin him around, and toss him right into the open, waiting arms of another hobbit-lass. Then came a sound John had never thought to exist. A sound he would never forget. A laugh that rang as clear as silver bells. It became a part of the music and completed it as if it were the last note needed to create sheer beauty in the music. He was so happy. John found tears trailing down his cheeks at the thought of all this. All that Frodo had and it was taken away.  
  
It was then that John perceived that the music had died. He could hear nothing but a heavy silence that weighed on his ears. He closed his eyes, tears blurring his vision. A voice came to him, a very distraught and hushed voice. It was a shred of a whisper yet so full of concern and emotion that it shook and cracked.  
  
"Well the lad has always a welcome up at Bag-End. BrandyHall is a hard place to grow up and now with-"  
  
"I know Mr. Baggins he's taken it quite hard too. We can't get him to eat or play with his cousins or even talk to us. He hasn't talked since the- accident. I'm worried."  
  
"And you should be. I'll talk to him, but it's hard for a young lad, I don't think any of us could understand what he's going through."  
  
"He's so young."  
  
The voices died away and John felt the world spinning around him. When he opened his eyes burning with tears he no longer saw the party field or festivities of Bilbo's birthday party. There was not music, no singing, no laughing. He heard some hushed whispers and sad murmurs but the rest was utter silence. When his eyes focussed he saw a large hall before him, grey and dark. It was lit with only candles and many Hobbits were gathered to mourn. He walked, as a ghost, slowly barely aware of his surroundings. It all seemed so familiar. He could no longer keep his tears in check. He was walking down the hall. His eyes sped across the source of the voices. Bilbo and another Hobbit shared a quiet conversation in the corner. He followed Bilbo's eyes to see they rest upon a small Hobbit-lad standing stock still as if he were carved in stone, barely noticed in the shadows. John let out a gasp, which sounded only like a slight breath of air between his teeth. This could not be. He walked over to the Hobbit-lad and sat down. There was silence, only silence and it was so quiet it hurt John's ears. Finally the young Hobbit turned his head, slowly very slowly, and rested his round, fearful, eyes shimmering their blue brilliance and overflowing with unshed tears, on this giant stranger. He almost let out a cry in disbelief and fear. It was a giant! John looked at the small Hobbit with such concern as if he was looking down at his own little brother at their parents' funeral. Such a thought raced through John's mind and sent tears pouring down his cheeks. The young Hobbit suppressed a cry at seeing the stranger's grief.  
  
"How do you do, sir?" The young Hobbit said at last. His voice was so scratchy and small. John realized that that was the first thing the young lad had said in days.  
  
A smile tugged at John's lips and all he wanted to do was embrace the frightened child but seeing as that would frighten him even more he just cleared his throat and croaked out, "How do you do, stranger?"  
  
~~~  
  
John shot bolt upright and found himself covered in a cold sweat. He looked about at the blank walls of his room and saw the small tufts of his little brother's hair peeping out of his blankets. The little boy turned in his sleep his cot squeaked lightly and John felt his own groan under his weight. This was their home, for now, who knows where they will be next. All he knew was he had to be there for his brother. His brother needed him and he had to be there. 


	3. The Woe of Aftermath

YAY! ::basks in reviews:: Ya know reviews make a happy author :D and you all have made me very very happy! I'm glad you all like this so very much ::wipes away tear dramatically:: I also like to make it a habit of reading stories by my reviewers cuz one good turn deserves another ^^ ok I'm talking too much I know what you all want. On with the story. Just another note. YES ALL OF THE EVENTS IN TOLKIEN'S LIFE ARE TRUE (I'm not sure about the dreams but there's a chance ::wink:: and the letter at the end of this heh but I needed something) Also as you'll soon see Frodo and Tolkien have a bit more in common in their suffering than the loss of their parents and a strong bond will form as their relationship changes so does their understanding for the depth of each others wounds.....  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
John's eyes fluttered open and for a moment it was as if he saw two black butterflies over his eyes. It did not take long for the rich green forest to come into focus around him. A smile spread across his features but he did not move. For a short moment he wanted to bask in the glory that was Middle-Earth. He lie curled up in the fissure of a great tree, one of the elder trees, one that was spared. It's great roots curved around his body as if protective arms cradled him in this wondrous dream. The tree could say so much. Some of the bark on the trunk was badly burned and only half of it bloomed to its fullest. But the ancient tree was warm and inviting. John tried to curl tighter into the fissure, filling it with his whole body, becoming part of it, but he found that his long legs draped over it. He sighed and sat up and yawned. His long arms stretched reaching up to the tree's limbs but hardly reaching them. As much as a "giant" he was now he could still not rival a great oak. Still he found that he was strangely content this time. And his smile never vanished. He yawned like a cavern and put his hand to his chin feeling the rough stubble that had come some time ago. There struck his memory and he leapt up with such spry vigor that he spun around and kicked his heals. He was as happy as Frodo at Bilbo's birthday and nothing could damper his mood. He had news, great news for his dear old friend. After all those years of studying under his friend's hand (which had only been a month or two for Frodo) the time had finally come.  
  
John stretched his legs and looked about. There was a chill in the air. Winter was receding and John hugged himself tightly in the cold March weather. He looked about, Frodo was normally there. "Frodo!" He called out as cheerfully as he ever has. He looked in the trees expecting to see the old Hobbit finishing his book. There was nothing but the chill in the air and the low murmur of the wind through the bare branches. He saw tiny buds fight frost and death through the stubborn winter that refused to let it iron grip of ice from the land. A shadow of worry passed John's face. He was a part of Frodo and Frodo was a part of him and thus he could not shake the sense of foreboding. But he quickly covered it.  
  
"He's getting tired. It's too cold for him to be out wandering about. And I'll be damned if Sam will let him," John laughed but hushed as he cursed. Frodo had always disliked him cursing so he learned to hold his tongue. He was taught that it was a sign of disrespect and the old Hobbit would get quite scorned when he said the slightest of profanities. John suppressed a chuckled, remembering one of Frodo's disapproving scowls, and started towards the Shire. This news could not wait. John broke into a jog, then a run, then a sprint.  
  
He could barely recall the forest pass him by nor the roads and scenery of the Shire. He could barely recall leaving the forest at all before he was upon the round green door. He paused and looked up at the skies above as if giving that strange power a questioning look now considering his speed. As slowly and silently as a human could he opened the door and slouched into the house. He heard a slam behind him and spun around his heart thumping wildly. He could not be seen, this he knew, yet he was still an intruder to this world. He let out a sigh as he saw a very distraught Rose close the door and shake her head.  
  
"Who leaves doors ajar in March," she muttered. John felt compelled to follow the lass. Her hair was disheveled and she was ringing a towel in her hands. He apron was untied at the bottom and it swayed about her skirts. She looked terrible as if she hadn't slept in days. John reached out a hand to touch her fair face. There was still a radiant beauty about the lass that reminded him so about his own beloved Edith.  
  
His hand brushed against her cheek but she felt it not and kept her brisk walk down the halls. John bent further until he thought his back would break. Rose turned and slipped in through one of the doors. John hesitated and listened to the voices inside. He could barely make out the sad murmurs.  
  
"...suffering...should Sam?..."  
  
"...yes...but he's out..."  
  
"..send...he'll come..."  
  
"...dying?..."  
  
Dying? Who was dying? John's eyes widened in fear.  
  
"...pray not...Sam'll know..."  
  
"...save him...find Sam...fly!..."  
  
"...yes Rose..."  
  
"...hold on Frodo..."  
  
The door burst open and Rose and another Hobbit came bustling out. John was almost pushed out of the way. He watched them as they moved down the hall, the other Hobbit was a younger lad, he looked like Rose and as he was putting on his cloak Rose gave him a kiss on the forehead and said, "Fly, brother."  
  
With that Rose had turned the way of the kitchen trying to hide tears. John was mesmerized the the motions of the two Hobbits and he stood dumbfounded, slouched in the hall. In time the words finally sunk into his mind. Suffering. Dying. Frodo.  
  
John crept into the dim lit room and looked about. The shades were drawn and the only light was a small fire in the hearth that seemed to be dying and flickering as it fought the darkness. John made his way towards the tiny bed, something was tucked tightly under a good deal of quilts and blankets.  
  
"Frodo?" he whispered. Silence answered.  
  
The figure in the bed turned and tossed until the blankets shifted and John saw the pale face, ghostly in the firelight. He suppressed a gasp and looked on his face reflecting the pain he saw in the other's. Frodo was ill. His brow was furrowed in agony and his eyes clenched in fear. His pale lips moved wordlessly as he fought inner demons. His trembling hands rose and fell at his breast searching for something.  
  
"Frodo," John tried again. The small Hobbit let out a low whimper that made the man's heart break. He searched for a place to sit but the closest place was by the window. He sighed and made his way towards the side of the bed. He sat down and found it much more comfortable though he had to curl up his long legs so that they would not knock anything over. He looked over, the ailing Hobbit now eye level with him. He squeezed his eyes shut tight but no tears came. He was too old for tears any longer. He would not cry. He reached out a hand and grabbed Frodo's as it wavered over his chest.  
  
He couldn't cry. He wouldn't cry. "You know, Frodo," he began as if the Hobbit could hear him. "I've got some- some very good-" he swallowed around a lump in his throat, "good news."  
  
A shuttering gasp of air came from Frodo but no answer. What could be wrong? John did not understand. He now cursed himself for not getting very far in the old book. He could recall his struggled reading and note-taking last night. He was in Lothlorien. He smiled at the thought and then his good news came back to mind.  
  
"I got a degree, Frodo. A degree at this place called Oxford. I know it doesn't sound like much to you, but it took very hard work to get a degree at a place like that. I got it last summer. Summer of my twenty-third year to be precise. I worked hard, Frodo. I did it for you. Now I can understand, and I'm working hard with your book."  
  
He continued with his good news as if Frodo could hear him. "But there's some other news, Frodo. And it's even better. Do you remember Edith? How her father wouldn't let me talk to her for a while. But I waited and I waited. Well it's March now, Frodo. It's March and on the 22nd I plan to marry her. I hope you're happy for me. She is a very lovely woman, and I love her."  
  
There came a little squeeze from the hand in his and John turned and looked at Frodo. He smiled faintly but Frodo made no more attempts to communicate. The Hobbit had calmed and was now sleeping but constantly dreams would plague him and tear him out of it crying and screaming. If he knew of John's presence at all he did nothing to let it be known. John had moved to the window and kept peeping out through the drapes, waiting. Rose came in and sat by Frodo's side and John watched her silently. She was very beautiful. And he thought of Edith and smiled.  
  
The tranquil silence filled the room and seemed to vanquish the dark and doom. Even Frodo seemed to calm and take refuge in the serenity when Rose grasped his hand or put a compress on his fevered brow. The silence was broken by a frantic rapping at the door. Rose jumped from her seat and fled the room as quick as she could. John looked from her as she left to Frodo. His fits had grown worse and now he was crying and lashing out. John leapt to his feet, knocking his head on the ceiling. He suppressed a curse and made his way to the foot of the bed.  
  
"Frodo! Frodo!" he called standing over the Hobbit. "Shh, Frodo."  
  
Frodo lashed out again and his eyes snapped open. They were clouded with fear and dread and they tried desperately to focus on the man standing before him. He let out another blood curdling cry now his words audible. "Keep away! I don't have it! Don't hurt me!"  
  
John felt as if he had been struck in the face. "Hurt you?" he said softly, "Never, Frodo, it's me, John."  
  
Frodo tried desperately to back away only succeeding in throwing himself against the headboard and tangling his weak limbs in the covers. "Help me! Help me, Sam! They've come!"  
  
With that another Hobbit came bursting in the room with the force of a storm. He ran to Frodo knocking John down again. When John came to his senses he saw Samwise sitting at the side of the bed clasping Frodo's hands and gently putting his hand to his brow. "Shh, Mr. Frodo, everything will be alright. There's no one gonna hurt you here, sir."  
  
Frodo whimpered and cried like a frightened child. "There was, Sam. He tried to kill me. He- he-" Frodo was gasping and shuttering, "He was big and terrible and he towered over me and he threatened me." Frodo's voice lowered and sounded drained, "He tried to take the Ring."  
  
John felt tears burn his eyes now and they slowly surfaced and trickled down his cheeks. He slowly stood to his shaking legs and made his way back to the window, in the shadows, alone and far away where he could do no more harm. Rose and her brother appeared in the doorway and exchanged worried glances. John curled up by the window feeling miserable and wretched and stayed there until everything quieted down. He watched Middle-Earth's sun move across the sky and the Hobbits go about their business outside unaware of the evils that were within this small Hobbit-hole. But that was always the way it was there. Hobbits were safe and protected and it was because of people like Frodo and Sam that sacraficed so much to keep it that way. And Frodo suffered for it. He would never dance, or smile, or laugh again. John thought back to Bilbo's birthday party and the Hobbit he saw there. John thought of Edith and his degree and all the things he had to be happy about. Would those be so viciously and unmercifully taken away as well? John burried his face in his knees but did not cry anymore.  
  
The sun slowly made it's way to the horizon and the sky burst forth in it's gold and burnt copper colors that dazzled him. No longer would Frodo be able to take in a fully enjoy the beauty of a March sunset. John lifted his head for the first time, a terrible pain ran through his neck but he ignored it. He saw Frodo sitting up in the bed staring at John.  
  
"You're alive," John croaked through unshed tears.  
  
"Well what do you know," Frodo smiled wryly.  
  
John frowned, "You- you scared everyone."  
  
"I heard your good news," Frodo tried to smile again but it was fake. Still John accepted Frodo's way of giving his congratulations and returned the false smile.  
  
Frodo leaned back and wrapped himself in the covers. John stood and made his way to the bed. Frodo sighed and stared up at the ceiling until John's worried face intruded his vision. Frodo tried to smile but failed miserably. "You heard my news?" John asked not sure what else to say.  
  
"Yes," Frodo nodded keeping his gaze on the ceiling.  
  
Silence. Silence weighed down on the two and John felt as if he'd go mad. Finally Frodo said what plagued John's mind all that time. "It's the Ring, John. It may be gone but a part of me was taken with it. I shall never be whole again."  
  
There was a pause and John was about to speak but Frodo spoke again. "Sometimes I wish they would just take me. Those nightmares. Take me and let me die."  
  
"No," John whispered.  
  
"You wouldn't understand, John, the travasties of war. What it's done to me. It's no longer worth living." Frodo said bitterly.  
  
"That's not fair," John answered harshly. "That's selfish of you, Frodo."  
  
Frodo turned a questioning glance at the man and scowled, "You could never understand. Why should I be let live? To suffer this!" He hissed coldly and John recoiled.  
  
"What about Sam and Rose and Merry and Pippin. They all love you. What do you think it would do to them if you should die? They love you and they need you, Frodo, you can't let go."  
  
"You do not understand the pain!"  
  
"You would cause them that pain and a thousand times more to leave them like that!" John snapped back, angered at Frodo's selfish hopelessness.  
  
Frodo turned around so he did not face the foolish man and mumbled angrily.  
  
"You selfish coward!" John cried, "Think of Pippin. He's so young and he loves you and looked up to you. Can you picture the grief you'd give him. Those innocent eyes rimmed red with tears on your account!"  
  
Frodo did not reply. His body rose and fell in a shuttering breath.  
  
John tried again. He had to get his friend to see the reasons to hold onto life. "Or Merry! He's your friend, Frodo, and he loves you. But he'd hide it. He'd keep all the pain and torture inside so that he may stay strong for his cousin. He'd bottle all that anguish until it burned inside of him and suffer all that on your account!"  
  
There was silence. Empty, cold silence.  
  
"Because you let go, Frodo, you sentance all of the ones that you love and that love you to suffer as you suffer now."  
  
Frodo's body stiffened. His face changed from it's bitter scowl and softened on the brink of tears. He did not let John see and kept his back to him. But John noticed the change and went on. He had to hold onto life. He just had to see.  
  
"And what about Sam. You'd hurt him most of all. Do you even care about him. The one who gave up so much so that he could see you safe and happy and home again."  
  
"But I am neither!" Frodo lashed out trying to hide his hurt. "No longer will I feel safe from these tormenting nightmares of what has been done. All that I've seen haunts me and drives me mad. No longer will I be happy or smile or dance ever again. Even the Shire was taken away from me. I can no longer feel at home here. I am- I am an intruder in my own home!"  
  
"Would you want Sam to share that suffering with you! If he knew how much you suffered he would gladly take it all from you and a bear it a hundred times more. You know that Frodo. Would you take all that he has away from him?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Then let him believe that his old master is safe and happy and home. Even if you must leave him to do that." John said slowly.  
  
"Pray you shall never know the pain of war. I wish no such fate to any creature, especially you, John," Frodo answered.  
  
"War is a terrible thing but you will plague the aftermath upon the ones you love if you let go."  
  
Frodo was silent. The truth of John's words sinking into him and banishing the coldness and the hopeless gloom. Frodo's gaze was fixed on the fire as it died in the hearth the orange glow of the embers flickered and danced behind his eyes. He watched the darkness consume them as they lay dying and the smoke filter from them as the spirit from Saruman's lifeless body had done. Small wisps of smoke filled the air as the fire made one last strive to live and then died in the darkness.  
  
"It's hopeless, John, I cannot live," he said almost hyptontically. John followed his gaze to the smothered fire and walked over to the hearth. "All I am is ash. Ashes and dust." Frodo rambled never tearing his eyes from the fire.  
  
As John was about to speak the door squeaked open and a very torn and teary eyed Sam emerged into the room. Upon seeing his master sitting up in the bed he ran to his side. "Master! Master! You're awake and alive!"  
  
Frodo first looked at John and gave a slight nod then turned to Sam and smiled. It was a real smile. A real smile accompanied by real tears and he finally collapsed into Sam's arms. John smiled as well. He was alive. Sam returned the embrace then pulled away. "Mr. Frodo?"  
  
"Oh Sam you're right, I am alive, and I couldn't be happier to be alive!"  
  
Sam smiled broadly and walked over to the fire. He tossed on a bit more kindling and poked the dead embers. Soon enough flames licked hungrily at the dry kindling and a fire danced and sparked full of life and light.  
  
From the ashes a fire shall be woken. From darkness a light shall spring.  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
John sat up but his heart was not fluttering madly and he was not covered in a cold sweat. He felt full and happy and he danced. He felt compelled to dance so he leapt to his feet and spun around and as the world whirled before him he thought how wonderful life was. On the table next to his bed was his degree from Oxford next to the post from the previous day. He stopped spinning and went through the mail. Finally he came across a letter in a light brown parchment he recognized all too well and he held it first to his heart then to his nose and took in the lovely perfume and sweet wild flower scent that was his beloved Edith.  
  
"Pray you shall never know the pain of war. I wish no such fate to any creature, especially you, John."  
  
John stopped as he opened the letter, his eyes fell on another letter he had looked over. It was not a draft notice but it made his heart sink all the more. He opened it slowly and it was a simple statement, perhaps the governments way of asking young men to go to war before having to draft them. It plainly read, *We are at War* 


	4. From this Point On

A/N: Well I'm not exactly sure what made me continue this. But now that I have I have mapped out a decent ending so it should be finished and, if I'm given time, updated regularly. I doubt anyone is still following but I for one loved this story very much and could not bear to see it so undone.  
  
Frodo watched as a spatter of ink marred his flowing script. He grumbled and tried to steady his shaking hand. Again a small splash of black rained upon the creamy pages. This time Frodo lifted his trembling hand and sighed wearily. He placed it down again slowly, attempting to finish the sentence at the least. "...and we..." His hand once again began a quivering, unsteady path of its own, trailing away from the words. Frodo narrowed his eyes.  
  
"You underestimate me, oh disobedient hand," he gave a wry smile. "I am just as persistent as you!" Again, with more diligence and infinite patience, Frodo Baggins set his hand down and moved it slowly.  
  
"...climbed... we climbed the jagged teeth of rock... our feet and hands shorn by..." Frodo grimaced as his hand began to tremble. His playful mood was wearing thin. "Emyn Muil... grey sheets of shale weaving a inordinate pathway of cold, wretched stone... Sam..."  
  
Frodo's concentration was shattered as he heard thick, heavy boot steps beating a steady cadence in the hall. He felt his heart go cold and for a moment felt the ash and sulfur of Mordor close in on him, gagging the very life from him. He shook his head wearily, almost denying what his eyes thought they saw. Orcs marching... "No!" muttered Frodo in a shred of a voice. Still the boot steps neared and Frodo tried to convince himself that there was no such creature here but with his conviction came a new feeling of dread. "Sam!" he cried shrilly running to the door but too frantic to turn the knob. Instead he beat the wood frantically, his voice rising. "I think I've gone mad, Sam! I think I've finally..."  
  
The door opened before him. Frodo stumbled but a large hand grasped his shoulder firmly. He looked up and stuttered for a moment. "Ara...?"  
  
"No," whispered the concerned voice. "John," he expression changed from one of worry into a warm smile.  
  
Frodo looked him up and down then narrowed his eyes. "You have certainly changed."  
  
John then seemed to look worried again. "This is a uniform, Frodo, I've..." John straightened, suddenly wondering why he felt he needed to be apologetic. "There is a war in my land and I've got to defend my home and kin."  
  
Anger smoldered in Frodo's eyes. "What have you done, you fool!" he cried. "You are a foolish foolish man! Heed you no word that I've said? Heed you none of it? You want to see war?" Frodo's voice descended into a fierce growl as he thrust his right hand into John's face. "That, old friend, is war."  
  
"You must know me now," whispered John, strongly. "You must know me. I would not do it for the pride of it."  
  
Frodo shook his head laughing cruelly. "You know it not. Boromir knew it." He raised his head and glared at John venomously. John thought he saw a look of hurt and betrayal in the bitter hobbit's eye. Lord Theoden knew it."  
  
"That they did," John said again in a kind whisper. "But so has Peregrin and Meriadoc."  
  
Frodo cocked his head, "And you think they are fine and well?"  
  
John paused. The truth was that he did. He had seen them riding about the Shire in their gleaming armor, singing and telling tales. He had seen them demonstrate their sword play on the tables at the Green Dragon for the crowds. The silence told Frodo all he needed.  
  
"I assure you that you will come to see that they still bear their wounds. As do I and as does Samwise."  
  
John now looked into Frodo's eyes and saw a deep compassion there. "I've got to fight."  
  
Frodo grew infuriated once more and stormed up to John. The man was sure he would have chuckled to be scolded by one the size of the child if he were not so used to it. Frodo did not seem daunted by John's towering height. "You foolish man. You know nothing! NOTHING!" Frodo heaved his arms forward and shoved John backwards in a fit of rage but before the man lost his footing and hit the ground, the smial and the infuriated hobbit were gone.  
  
He looked about. He was somewhere else. The place was still small but he had no need to slouch. In fact he could stand rather comfortably, the stone ceiling a few feet above his head. A grand hallway flourished before him, with small doors and stairwells. The hall branched out and further down, John could see that it broadened into a center for hustle and bustle. Small, hobbit children here having a mock sword fight with brooms along the stairwell as a rather buxom nurse attempted to break up their play. A flock of squealing girls chased each other about, weaving through the slight crowd.  
  
John felt he could move at ease as he traveled down the hall. Three maids were standing at a door chatting and blushing and a group of young minstrels played the pipes and flutes and lutes by another stairwell. An old couple was dancing with the vigor of a lad and lass and John felt himself smiling, his confusion wearing away with the mirth in the place.  
  
"Brandy Hall," John murmured, grinning. He noted there were less hobbits moving about than he was lead to believe. The nurse had quelled the sword fight and led the complaining lads inside.  
  
"But I wanted to be Master Meriadoc the Magnificent!" cried the older boy, swinging his sword haughtily.  
  
"The Master and his tales," John thought he heard the nurse mutter as she ushered them in for bed.  
  
The flock of squealing girls dwindled as they were swooped up and caught by their mothers. The old couple finished their dance and stood hand in hand before their door while the minstrels wrapped up their tune and John saw the three maid depart, waving their pocket handkerchiefs at each other. So it was night, thought John, and he should find his way around Brandy Hall with relative ease. He's always wanted to explore the place but he never dreamed to do it in peace and solitude.  
  
It was not a difficult task. After some time wandering he was bound to stumble across it. The master bedroom, where the new Master of the Hall, resided. John, secure in his knowledge that he could remain unseen, entered quietly. It was dark and terribly cold inside. He had thought the master rooms would be more elegantly furnished and a pleasantly warm place, with large hearths and thick drapes along the windows. There were thick drapes though, drawn closed, but they sealed in no warmth. John saw a small form, his feet dangling from the edge of a bed too large for a lone hobbit. His curly head was bent and John approached cautiously.  
  
The bed was untouched and as he neared John could hear soft whimpers. He saw the dark form tremble slightly then stop then continue to quiver. John could see nothing in the dark. He could barely make out Merry's figure. He saw that the hobbit's right forearm rested limply in his lap, the left hand supporting him on the bed. Fed up with the dark and gloom, John stepped toward the curtains and threw them open. Merry gasped and turned towards the window.  
  
John stared in numb fright. The moonlight washed over the hobbit's pale face, glimmering tears staining his swollen cheeks. He squinted fearfully into the bright silver moonlight and raised his trembling hand to shield his eyes. John could see the hand shaking violently as it was held in the air. A soft, eerie glow seemed to curl soft tendrils of pale smoke about the flesh of that arm.  
  
John could hear Merry's breaths harsh and ragged. The hobbit stood silently and walked heavily toward the window, letting his wounded arm drop and hang limply at his side. He looked out the window mournfully and then drew the drapes closed. "I do not understand," John heard him murmur harshly. The man wondered if he had frightened the hobbit too much when he threw open the drapes, now wishing more than ever he had not seen that ghostly sight. But it was not the insolent drapes that Merry had been speaking of.  
  
"This black breath, cold as death, whispers death... death..."  
  
John gasped at the cold, dazed look in Merry's grey eyes. He sat down heavily on the bed again and continued gazing at his arm. "Whispers death... death..." John felt his heart turn to ice at the sound of despair in that deadened voice.  
  
Merry threw himself down, moaning and grasping the blankets. "How did you do it, Frodo?" he murmured into the counterpane. He turned around to lie on his back, his trembling, icy fingers moving away the fabric of his shirt. "It was so close to your heart." Merry's hand sought his own heart and then rested there, shaking violently. "If only Peregrin had buried me then, my soul would perhaps find peace now."  
  
John shook his head slowly.  
  
"No, not dead," Merry began shaking his head as well, and, seeing the insanity of it, John quickly stopped. "I was not dead... I am not dead... On the morrow I'll awake... I'll awake from this..."  
  
"Only a dream," whispered John, tears in his eyes. "Only a dream!" Again he shouted it more strongly but it was thrown back from every wall in the place. Merry sat up quickly, his disheveled curls falling into his swollen, tear stained face.  
  
"Who are you?" his voice was laced in fear but his expression did not change from that of anguish. "Who are you? Why have you come? What do you want of me?"  
  
John looked about wildly. "You can see me?"  
  
"Can't see it," Merry murmured with growing fear.  
  
John could take no more. He ran to the bed and gathered the hobbit in his arms, pressing Merry's head against his breast. He rocked the hobbit in his arms like a child. "You are but dreaming, Merry, you will awake tomorrow. It will all be mist in you mind by then."  
  
Expecting to feel the hobbit cry out and push him away, John was shocked when an icy grasp gripped him desperately and he felt Merry sob into his chest. "I'm so scared, Frodo," he whimpered.  
  
John looked down almost shocked at what the hobbit in his arms said but as quickly as he did, the Hall and its wounded master were gone.  
  
The man sighed. The room he was now in was smaller than Merry's but larger than the rooms of Bag-End. He looked around and saw a bed in the corner, dawn light filtering in through the round window and lighting a small form on the bed. He was laying, under the thin white sheet, his hands turned palm downwards to grasp at the mattress below, clawing at it desperately. John approached cautiously. The small legs were kicking slowly as if a great weight was pressing them down. "Help! Somebody help!" The small voice was rising, shrill and thin, as if he were fighting through a world of echoes to be heard. John looked down upon the contorted face of Peregrin, held in the terrible thrall of nightmarish memory.  
  
The cries were quickly heard and a young lass, with wild red curls and a yellow flowered apron came flying in. She bent over her brother and grasped his clawing hands. "Hush, Pippin, hush, my dear," she whispered. One of her gentle hands smoothed his brow and cupped his cheek.  
  
His eyes sprung open and for a while he stared unseeingly at her concerned face. "I'm dead," he whispered shrilly. "I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead. Have the eagles come? No, that's another's tale, that's another's."  
  
"Oh hush, baby brother," sobbed the girl. "You are not dead. You are safe and warm at home."  
  
Pippin blinked a few times and when his eyes finally focused they lit with a mad fear and disgust as he scrambled out from under his sister and fell to the ground crying, "Begone! Begone from me!" He scrambled to his feet and stopped dead. He brought his hands to his face and wept.  
  
"It was only a dream," she began coming towards he brother. Pippin shrugged her aside and darted away.  
  
John, entranced, followed quickly. He found Pippin In another room, pacing wildly and rubbing his arms. "I've dreamt it and now it's gone. I've dreamt it and now it's gone. Oh but the eye. No, it's gone." Pippin, almost satisfied with that thought sank to his knees, staring blankly into the corner until his sisters came into the room and helped him up. The lost despair in his eyes was beginning to recede as they led him from the room with promises of warm tea and blueberry tarts. As he was being led out his head turned slightly, his gaze resting on John for a moment before he shook his head and smiled wryly to his sisters. "I've gone mad." Some giggled and some told him not to joke about such things. And they were gone.  
  
John brought his hands to his face to stay his weeping. He pressed his back against the wall and slid down, bowing his head.  
  
"Forgive me, John!" came a cry and he knew the soft cultured voice to be Frodo's. John looked up wearily. He was back at Bag-End, leaning against a wall as Frodo looked down on him in horror. "I knew not what I did," he whispered fearfully.  
  
"You knew what you did," muttered John as he rose only to bow to the low ceiling. Frodo shrank before him as he stood. John almost smiled slightly. "I suppose I should train better. If I'm no match for an old hobbit, who's nearly twice my age and half my size, I'd be no match for the Germans."  
  
Frodo frowned indignantly but then furrowed his brows confused. "For what? I've never heard of such things."  
  
"Yes," said John matter-of-factly. "And no one in my world's heard of orcs. Though they are hardly similar creatures. They are men like me and Aragorn."  
  
Frodo scoffed indignantly, almost too shocked to speak. "Men? Men against men? Kin against kin! Your world is truly mad, John."  
  
"We are different countries of men, with different rulers, there is strife sometimes, now more than ever."  
  
Frodo just shook his head. "Fool..." he muttered bitterly.  
  
"Frodo, why did you stand before the council and volunteer to take the Ring?"  
  
"I was foolish. I knew not what it would do."  
  
"Then why did you continue... once you began to understand?  
  
"I had no choice. I could not turn back."  
  
"Nothing was stopping you from throwing the Ring into the river and going home."  
  
"I stopped me!" Frodo cried angrily. "Did you understand nothing that was said in the council, or was I positively vague? The danger of the Ring knew no bounds, if Sauron were to succeed then men, elves, and all the Shire would be but ash and my kin the lowest of slaves."  
  
John nodded. "That is why I go to war." John stepped out into the hallway and towards the door to Bag-End. Frodo followed almost at a run.  
  
"You go, John, and you will not come back! Do you hear me? You can never return from what you are going off to. Not I, nor Samwise, nor Peregrin, nor Meriadoc ever came back!"  
  
John stopped abruptly, he turned around to speak but Frodo was gone. He looked around and saw he was lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He sighed, got out of bed, and put on his uniform. 


End file.
